The Clock Strikes Sadness
The clock at the station strikes me sad
stuck at midnight or noon.
Its hands won’t tell which twelve.
But that’s not what strikes me sad,
not even the way you got off the train,
met me a block away
and seemed like you wanted to leave
the first second you set eyes on me.
You stood tall and dark and fidgety.
I couldn’t change your mind to make you stay.
And years later we are married
and you barely remember that autumn eve.
But not even that strikes me sad.
It’s the clock that stops when
someone leaves.
April 8, 2017
for Open Poetry Contest 2
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2017
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